“Bring it on!” exclaimed Clayton. “Show me, Laird. Who provokes the provocateurs? Who out-memes the dank memers?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Enough, you guys,” Beverly said. “Laird, as you can see, no luck at the reception. We should report it.”

“Again, I say we’re not approaching this from the right angle,” replied Clayton. “We should try to get inside the mind of the murderer, so to speak. If you were Rex, where would you go? Think troll.”

“Clayton, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Laird said. “Why do you work at Jabberwocky? You really don’t seem to give a damn.” What Laird wanted to say was, You know how you can calculate the weight of atomic elements in moles? Your appreciation for what we do can’t even be measured in moles of hydrogen.

“I give a damn about the Jabs,” Clayton protested. “If you must know, it’s my mom’s policy that we have to do some form of community service in the summer as long as we live under my parents’ roof. Since they’re footing the bill for my tuition, that means I still qualify. She wants us to learn the merits of giving back. Think of what I’m sacrificing to be here. Right now I could be at a swank internship or on a yacht. They’ve grown on me, though. I like Rex.”

“You’re a real martyr for the cause.” Laird rolled his eyes.

For a minute Laird considered the problem of fate, eternal recursion, and the speed of light. It took eight minutes for light from the sun to reach earth. What if, he wondered, we were always living slightly in the past? Not the far-distant past, but, say, only eight minutes past. The decisions we made—for the Jabberwocky trolls to troll, Rex to run away, for Beverly to commit her mother, Laird to abscond from his wife and son—were predestined, thus removing any amount of personal culpability, as well as any amount of hope.

“Get in the car, Clay,” Beverly said. “Time to return to camp.”

“Don’t give up, Bev!” Clay replied. “Maybe Rex went somewhere predictable, where normal people go in their normal lives—to the movies, I know he likes movies, or the beach. We should scope out those spots.”

“Where would you suggest we begin? This island is nothing but beachfront property.”

“Gay Head Beach is right here. We should pay a visit to Gay Head.”

Laird heaved himself out of the Volkswagen. He rubbed his sore sciatic nerve and ambled toward the path leading to the water. “What’s up, Lare Lare?” Clayton queried. “Where are you headed, Laird?” Beverly asked. “I’m doing what the kid recommends,” Laird replied. Bev and Clay jogged to catch up. “We’re coming, too! Wait a sec!” they called. Clay wasn’t wrong. It was feasible that Rex wanted to sit by the Atlantic, to be reminded he was alone.